


Rite of Avowal

by DarkxPrince



Series: Fading Fires [1]
Category: Dark Souls III
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 11:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7506330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkxPrince/pseuds/DarkxPrince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Within the Tomb of the Darkmoon Anri of Astora waits to be wed and Atarah, an Unkindled, arrives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rite of Avowal

Atarah strode through the long corridor, a veil of mist parting before her as if to guide her way. In her hands she clutched two distinctly different weapons: one was a strange combination of both sword and spear, said to have been a dragon slayer weapon of the age of the gods; the other was a sword made of pure stone, a circle protecting the hilt carved with intrinsic runes. The pilgrim from Londor at the mouth of the corridor told her that she would need this stone sword in order to marry Anri, the noble knight from Astora. Atarah wasn’t entirely sure why she would need it - strange customs from strange lands, she supposed.

The fog around her thinned, though refused to lift entirely as if it knew something that she did not. Before her was a grand mausoleum, moonlight streaming in through the solitary window. Several steps led to the a small alter, where she expected to have found Anri waiting for her. Descending the main stairs into the mausoleum, Atarah searched for a sign of anyone else - yet still there was no one. She drove the tip of the swordspear into the ground at the base of the stairs, her footsteps echoing throughout the mausoleum as she drew closer to the alter.

She could finally make out something laid out upon the alter … a body? Yes, it was a body, laid out as if ready for burial. A simple white cloth covered the face, concealing the identity of the person. Yet Atarah did not need to see the face to know who the body belonged to. The elite knight’s armor the body was clad in told her everything that she needed to know. She knew who this was … it was Anri of Astora.

Atarah had first met Anri on her travelers throughout the land. Much like Atarah, the young knight was on her own quest seeking the Lords of Cinder. Anri had vowed to slay Aldrich, Devourer of Gods, and Atarah had sworn to help. While their respected journeys would force them to part, they would always find their way back to the other. While Atarah would admit to caring deeply about the young female knight, she couldn’t say that she _loved_ her. Given enough time, perhaps she could have … though now she’ll never know.

 _“This shouldn’t have happened,”_ Atarah thought, collapsing to her knees. It shouldn’t have come to this. She shouldn’t have let this happen. How could she have let this happen? She was a Darkmoon Knight, they were meant to protect the innocent.  She would not let Anri’s sacrifice be in vain, it had to mean something. Whatever power she gained by this dark ritual, Atarah swore she would use it to uphold the virtue of the covenant of the Blades of the Darkmoon.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, “May the flames guide thee.” Atarah raised the Sword of Avowal … and plunged it into Anri’s chest.

A black mist, much like the energies of other dark sorceries, slithered along the stone blade and up her arms, settling deep within her. It was cold and hollow, as if there was a vast emptiness within her now. As the last of the magical energies borrowed within her, Atarah returned to her feet, her head bowed in silent prayer. Turning on her heal, she stalked away from the alter, returning to retrieve her swordspear.

Out of the corner of her eye, something reflected off the moonlight streaming in. The mist parted, as if it had been waiting for someone worthy enough to come along, revealing a set of armor. It was a beautiful set of brass armor, and as Atarah approached, she could see the intrinsic pattern of dark silver. Atarah had the strangest sense that this armor once belonged to a previous Darkmoon Knight … and that she had been chosen to wear it. Shedding her current armor, she quickly donned her new set.

Once again turning on her heel, Atarah returned to her swordspear at the base of the stairs. Grasping the hilt, she murmured on last prayer - vowing to redeem herself and to stay true to the virtue of being Blades of the Darkmoon - and … dropped her hand to her side. No, she couldn’t wield this weapon anymore. It was for a woman she no longer was and for a time that perhaps should be left behind. She would have to find a suitable weapon on her return to Firelink Shrine. Until then, her sacred chime - the same chime that Company Commander Yorshka not only used but gifted to her - will have to serve.

Of course, that was not to say that she was completely helpless. Her faith was still strong, and the lightning she could call forth was stronger than it ever was. With that in mind, Atarah strode past the swordspear, leaving it - and the Tomb of the Darkmoon - behind her.


End file.
